Christophe in his turn bade him be silent. In spite of himself, and although he preferred more manly music, yet he drank in the murmuring of the woods and fountains of the soul which came whispering to his ears. Amid the passing struggles of the nations they sang the eternal youth of the world, the
Sweet goodness of Beauty.
While humanity,
Screaming with terror and yelping its complaint
Marched round and round a barren gloomy field,
while millions of men and women wore themselves out in wrangling for the bloody rags of liberty, the fountains and the woods sang on:
"Free!… Free!… Sanctus, Sanctus…."
And yet they slept not in any dream selfishly serene. In the choir of the poets there were not wanting tragic voices: voices of pride, voices of love, voices of agony.
A blind hurricane, mad, intoxicated
With its own rough force or gentleness profound,
tumultuous forces, the epic of the illusions of those who sing the wild fever of the crowd, the conflicts of human gods, the breathless toilers,